


something so magic about you

by misdirectedhex



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Quentin Coldwater, Dom/sub Undertones, Happy Ending, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Season 2 AU, Smut, Top Eliot Waugh, i don't like alice i'm so sorry but she's barely in this, just a lot of porn, oh wow eliot and q are both alive and together forever that's beautiful, road trip fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24483727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misdirectedhex/pseuds/misdirectedhex
Summary: A diplomatic mission to Loria calls the kings and queens of Fillory to head north. Quentin finds himself continually distracted and disarmed by Eliot, and they fall into an effortless ease Quentin has never experienced before.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 25
Kudos: 199





	something so magic about you

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based solely on the show and with a tenuous grasp on even that canon, so join me while I pick out the canon I like and veer off somewhere mid-season two. 
> 
> Thank you to ex0skeletal for taking the time to be my precious beta!

During a rare lull between all the constant mortal peril, Quentin found himself almost always in the library in Whitespire. They had been slowly restocking it since they...ascended...he guessed, and he was grateful to have some time to breathe. Reading had always been his favorite way to decompress. 

Lately, Eliot and Margo had begun having some of their private, royal discussions in the library as well. Quentin suspected it was to keep him apprised of their plans in a low-pressure way. At first, when the four of them had returned to recoup in Fillory, they had taken to strategizing and meeting with citizens all in the throne room. But sitting on a throne had sometimes felt like a laughable farce to him, and once, when a Fillorian citizen was appealing to them, he had called Quentin “your most glorious majesty.” Quentin had literally laughed aloud and then slapped a hand over his mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to hide it. The citizen, apparently deeply offended, had been apologized to by Eliot and Margo and politely shown out. Quentin just nodded to Eliot (who was trying to hide his teasing smile) and Margo with a resigned awareness and left the throne room. Clearly face to face time with the Fillorians was not his strong suit. 

So Margo and Eliot had begun talking politics and plans in the library while Quentin pretended to read. Sometimes Quentin put his book down entirely and openly listened. Sometimes he’d even contribute and help strategize when he felt he could. Today, though, their discussion was uneventful, and Quentin was just enjoying their easy banter. He snorted, amused when Eliot said something particularly sarcastic but also right. Eliot pointed to Quentin like evidence, looking at Margo expectantly. Margo rolled her eyes and they moved on, Quentin losing the thread after that.

It’d been a while since they could just hang out. Even if it still involved running a country, this was the most downtime they’d had for months. Before everything had ramped up with the Beast, Quentin had always enjoyed being with Eliot and Margo. They’d been an intense pair when he first met them; lightning-fast conversations and quick-witted references, flirting and insults wrapped up in complicated ways that Quentin could barely parse before the conversation moved on. It’d been a lot, but never a dull moment. And after a life of dull moments, it was nice to be around people that made him feel alive. 

Now that he knew them better, that intensity was less overwhelming and more comforting. He had easily slipped back into his book and gotten through a few chapters when Eliot’s voice cut through.

“Q, do you think you could take time out of your busy schedule to join us on a diplomatic mission?”

Quentin was scrunched in an armchair across from them, where they sat on a tufted chaise. They always looked like a photo sitting together: limbs artfully placed, dressed immaculately, leaning slightly together like they were part of an exclusive club, which he weirdly felt like he was finally in.

“Where are we going?” Quentin asked easily. 

“North, to Loria. They’ve offered us a peace treaty,” Eliot said. 

“Which is obviously a trap,” Margo added. 

“They asked for all four kings and queens of Fillory to be there for the signing. Apparently some arcane tradition that validates a treaty?” Eliot said, ending it in a way that implied he was asking Quentin his opinion.

“Uh, there wasn’t, like, much about Loria in these,” he said drumming his fingers on the book he’d just been reading. Eliot waved his hand in a vague gesture, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, waiting for Margo to inevitably speak up.

“Do I need to fuckin’ hire Admiral Ackbar so you can understand? It’s obviously a trap,” Margo repeated. Eliot’s hand went to his chest in mock outrage.

“I mean, it might help if you brought him on, yeah. He’s a military genius, Bambi,” Eliot said in a ‘duh’ tone of voice. 

“Oh? I’m surprised you don’t want General Grievous,” Margo said with a sharp glint in her eye. 

Eliot glanced at Quentin before angling toward Margo. “That was a tequila secret, Margo,” he said, almost too quiet for Quentin to hear. 

Margo smirked, then leaned toward Quentin. “He loves the prequels.”

Quentin made a face. “That is pretty embarrassing for you.”

Eliot thwapped Margo on the arm. “It’s all nostalgia,” he said loftily.

“And wanting to fuck a seven-foot-tall evil robot,” Margo cut in while Eliot tried to cover her mouth.

Quentin laughed, delighted at this development.

Eliot cut him a glare. “I don’t think you can be throwing stones, Q. You’re reading a Fillory book right now.” 

Quentin involuntarily clasped his hands over the book cover lying on his chest, like he could still hide it in time. “I don’t like them because I wanna fuck anyone though,” Quentin said.

“Are you sure?” Eliot said condescendingly. 

Quentin’s mind flashed back to his daydreams about marrying Jane and his early confusion about whether he wanted to be Rupert Chatwin or marry him, too. (It was both.)

“I don’t--I mean--at least my place is real,” Quentin said lamely.

“Space is real, Q,” Eliot said, his tone patronizing.

Which made Quentin laugh and open his mouth to say something about how maybe they should go on a diplomatic mission to the Dagobah system if it’s so real when Margo cut in. 

“My point is there’s no ‘treaty signing tradition,’ Ess is just pissed I found out about his illusion,” Margo said, dragging out the word, “and will probably feed me finger sandwiches with a cyanide aioli the moment we get there.”

“There may be a tradition,” Eliot said with a nod to Quentin. “And I think Bambi here is just being modest about the impression she left on Ess’s tiny little heart. He’s just trying to avoid an expensive war and also impress you with his big...castle.”

Margo rolled her eyes. “Well, either way, we’re going anyway. I’d also love to avoid an expensive war and I have some plans of my own. We just have to get Ice Bitch to come.” Her eyes cut to Quentin. “Sorry,” she said with maybe half sincerity, more than Quentin expected. He just waved it off. She wasn’t wrong. 

“Well, I’m in,” Quentin said. “Be cool to see more of the countryside of Fillory.”

“That’s great, because we’re going by carriage,” Eliot said, looking at Margo pointedly on the word ‘carriage.’

“They didn’t even have showers here, El, what do you want me to do?”

“Well, I invented the shower so...something like that?” 

“You know I’m far too busy to invent a car, Eliot.” 

And they were off again, bickering about transportation. Later, when Quentin tuned back in, they were talking about an actual plan to invent a car in Fillory. 

“It’d have to have no emissions,” Eliot said at one point (to which Margo said, ‘obviously’), and Q smiled into his book. 

\--

A week later, Quentin wished he’d paid more attention to their initial conversation as he was roused from sleep to a pitch-black morning. He was soon up, blearily watching an attendant lay out a Fillorian outfit for him to wear, and then packing more of his things in a trunk. 

“Um, where am I going?” Quentin asked. He was propped up against the post of the bed trying to stifle a yawn. He hadn’t slept well.

“You are joining your other highnesses on a peace journey to Loria,” the attendant answered, his back to Quentin as he pulled shirts down from the closet.

“Ah, right,” Q said. He eyed the Fillorian outfit with suspicion, but it looked comfortable enough. And a nice enough fabric that he figured Eliot would approve. He stood there, watching the attendant pace the room, packing. He felt awkward letting someone else do this for him. His eyes fell to his desk, turning away just for something to do.

Eyeing one of his Fillory books, he realized it’d be nice to have his own map on hand. He shuffled through the pile of books on his desk and found an edition with a few maps in the beginning pages. The route to Loria was well-labeled with towns and villages along the way, but Quentin knew they had never been described in much detail in the book. When he was younger, Quentin had often daydreamed about all the little day-to-day details of the Chatwins’ lives, details of Fillory in general. Quentin had never been a fan of long trips in the enclosed space of the car, hated being bored and trapped, but he was actually excited about the journey part of this trip. It was refreshing to feel more joy than panic about something. And compared to their previous quests, a diplomatic mission between two potentially-warring countries seemed low key.

“Sire?” the attendant said loudly, cutting into Quentin’s reverie. His tone implied he’d repeated himself. Quentin was very used to that tone. The attendant gestured out the door, bidding him to follow. Quentin tucked the book under his arm and followed. 

He led Quentin out to the front of the castle where their traveling party was assembling, mounted torches atop the carriages cutting through the morning darkness. Quentin was the last to arrive of the four kings and queens, but not too late that they were waiting on him. Eliot was standing tall beside a carriage, hand on his hip as he looked out down the road. He was wearing a ridiculous deep red, Fillorian silk suit that looked amazing on him, as usual. Sometimes Quentin was still struck by how well royalty suited Eliot; it fit him with the same natural grace of his well-tailored clothing. It was a thought Quentin had often but would never voice. He didn’t think he could handle Eliot’s inevitable smug teasing.

Quentin, looking down at his own baggy Fillorian outfit, wondered vaguely if he should have dressed more kingly for a diplomatic trip. He looked to Margo, who was loudly directing an attendant while he strapped down their luggage. She, unlike Eliot, was dressed far more comfortably in linen traveling clothes. Alice was standing stiffly between them, dressed as she always was. Quentin figured he’d probably always feel like an impostor, even draped in silks and crown jewels.

His thoughts were interrupted suddenly by Margo yelling loudly toward the back of their party, “We’re leavin’ in three, everyone! Get a move on!” 

Alice looked briefly annoyed at the volume of Margo’s voice, but just turned on her heel and got into the carriage. Eliot followed her, and Quentin darted after him before Margo could turn and get in next. Quentin settled next to Eliot, taking Margo’s usual place. No one acknowledged it, even when Margo slid inside and looked momentarily surprised to see Quentin where he was. But she didn’t say anything, just glared daggers at him as she settled in the remaining seat. Quentin didn’t want to deal with the awkwardness of sitting next to Alice, so Margo could deal with it.

After Quentin had brought Alice back, things had been terrible to put it mildly. Quentin hadn’t been naive enough to think that bringing her back would return them to how they were before everything. In fact, he hadn’t really thought much about the after of bringing her back at all. He’d been so consumed with the how that he hadn’t really had time for contemplating the nature of their relationship beyond that.

But the after did come, and now Alice was angry and resentful, struggling with her return. Most of the time, she didn’t want anything to do with him or anyone else. And Quentin was exhausted. Grieving her, working with the niffin, bringing her back, and now dealing with her resentment, it was all exhausting. He’d done what he could, which he thought was a lot, by the way, and now, to be honest, he just needed a fucking break.

So he sat by Eliot in the carriage. He’d just wanted a buffer so he wouldn’t be caught in a conversation neither he nor Alice seemed to want but just kept happening. And Eliot and Margo were his favorite buffer. They could talk for a long time on a range of subjects and, like in the library, Quentin enjoyed just listening. 

Their low voices, still in the early morning, lulled Quentin to sleep for a bit. Last night he’d been constantly tossing and turning or falling into vague, anxious dreams. That was pretty par for the course for him. But the carriage was dim and warm inside, and Quentin found himself wanting to nod off. Quentin appreciated again that he’d sat next to Eliot. Eliot was always comfortable and accommodating with his physical affection. It made it easy for Quentin to just tuck his legs up and lean his back against Eliot’s arm. Eliot easily settled lower in his seat, stretching his legs out toward Margo for a better angle. 

Touching had never been Quentin’s thing, for a variety of reasons and hangups. If it had been almost anyone else where Eliot was sitting, Quentin would have felt deeply uncomfortable just being near them in such a small space. But Eliot had made it clear from the very beginning that casual touching was normal for him. By the time Quentin figured out how to even explain to Eliot how strange this was for him, he decided he preferred to just let it keep happening. 

He ended up sleeping better in the carriage than he had in his own bed the night before. When he woke, stretching in a contented way, it was to Margo’s laughter.

“The horse, for sure,” she said, while Eliot snorted lightly.

“Of course. Truth, then,” Eliot said. He raised his arm toward Margo, holding out a flask. Quentin sat fully up in his seat again as Margo raised her own flask in return and knocked back a swig.

“You cheated with that one though, it was far too obvious,” she said once she swallowed.

Eliot laughed and said, “Fine, fine, your turn, show me how it’s done.”

Margo narrowed her eyes at Eliot like she was thinking, but evilly. And then she turned toward Quentin, as if just noticing he was awake, and said, “Oh, Q, you’re just in time for our game.”

Quentin felt a wave of dread at the predatory look on her face. “I don’t know how to play,” Quentin said, trying to make it sound like it was hopeless to even try to teach him. 

“I didn’t tell you what game yet, sweetie,” Margo said, her voice dripping with condescension. 

“Margo asks a question, I answer with the truth or a lie, she guesses which one it was, and the loser drinks, but in reality, we both just drink,” Eliot said as he took a quick swig from his own flask. “Nice try, Q.”

“And this one can be for both of you idiots,” Margo said. Then, “And Alice, if she wants.” 

“She does not,” said Alice, flipping a page in her book. 

Margo shrugged, unbothered. “Okay, where is the most embarrassing place you’ve ever come?” 

“What? I’m not answering that!” Quentin said, unprepared for the level of embarrassment the game had arrived at so quickly. He really should have assumed though, knowing who was asking.

“You have to, Q, it’s the rules,” Margo said back coolly, like that made sense. 

“Hmm, so many places…” Eliot trailed off quietly, stroking his chin and looking upward thoughtfully. “I’ll go first, Q, as a show of solidarity,” he added, nudging Quentin with a wink. “I think...mine was in a Dairy Queen in Gary, Indiana.”

“You came inside Gary Indiana?” Margo asked. Quentin snorted at the joke.

“No, I pulled out of Gary that time,” Eliot said smoothly back. Margo grinned and Quentin let out a surprised laugh. 

“I was fourteen and bored as fuck at the job I’d gotten to not be bored as fuck at home. So I jerked it in the freezer on a slow, 102-degree day,” Eliot said easily. 

“That seems very tame for you, El,” Margo said. 

“It really does,” Quentin agreed. 

“It’s embarrassing because I was alone. Is yours so much more interesting, then?” Eliot said, eyeing Quentin. 

“I said I wasn’t gonna answer that!” Quentin shot back defensively. 

“Quentin, don’t be a fuckin’ bore,” Margo said. 

“Does inside a mental institution count?”

“Q, you know that using your past trauma as a defense mechanism doesn’t work on us,” Eliot said with an apologetic look, patting his arm.

Quentin did know that but thought he’d try. Something about sharing new traumas with people made them less pitying about your own, past traumas. It was honestly a relief for Quentin since he’d been so sick of that concern-sad-pity look he’d gotten for a large chunk of his life before magic. Right now he was just annoyed, though. How did they always trap him into these games? Margo kicked his leg and waggled her eyebrows. Quentin rolled his eyes to the ceiling and huffed out defeat. 

“In a wolf sanctuary?” Quentin said, grimacing, his eyes still locked on the ceiling.

“Quentin Coldwater, no,” Eliot said, hitting Quentin’s arm, aghast.

“Huh, I didn’t know you were into that kind of thing,” Margo said, with a considering look.

“What! I didn’t--no! Oh my god, what? I was--it was with a girl!” Quentin sputtered. Eliot cackled next to him, his hand slapping Quentin’s thigh. The heat of his palm, along with the conversation, made Quentin’s ears burn hot. 

“That seems even less likely than what I was thinking,” Margo said. 

“She was my girlfriend! At the time. Which was only for like three weeks. She was...pushy, though. And dragged me into a bathroom in the sanctuary during a school trip. Is all. That happened,” Quentin said, lamely. 

Margo looked between them, contemplating. “Okay well, Q is probably telling the truth, I guess. But Eliot, you definitely lied,” she said, handing her flask to Quentin. He confirmed by taking it and knocking back a large swallow.

“Drink up, my sweet Margo. You know I always prefer a bed. And I’ve never been that bored again after I left Indiana.” Eliot’s hand, still on Quentin’s thigh, squeezed him once before he moved it to pluck Margo’s flask from Quentin and gallantly hand it back to her. 

Margo took it, but said, “I’ve seen you collecting dick at a secret rave in the basement of an old meatpacking factory, Eliot.”

“Bambi, please. I didn’t come there. I take my conquests elsewhere so I can actually take my time. Although, I didn’t even do that that night. He was a terrible kisser.” Eliot took a swig from his flask like he needed it to cope with the memory.

The image of Eliot kissing a vague-faced person formed in Quentin’s mind. And then, from a rogue spike of insecurity, an intrusive thought popped over that image. What if I’m a bad kisser...

Alice wouldn’t have told him, she could barely share when all of the sex was apparently bad. But it’s not like Margo and Eliot would have wasted their time on him if he’d been that horrible. They had been spaced out on emotional hangovers, though. Maybe it hadn’t even mattered and Quentin was horrible and they just ignored it in the moment. 

“Eh, kissing skill is really low on my list of sexual demands,” Margo said. 

Oh…

“Can’t relate, anything below a B+ really kills my boner. Although, I don’t think I’ve fully hooked up with anyone below an A- anyway,” Eliot added, as if he knew exactly what Quentin had just been thinking. 

Well...maybe he was fine then. More than fine even, it seemed. Quentin felt slightly embarrassed, but a bloom of warmth filled his chest. He brushed his hair behind his ear, one of his nervous ticks. Margo smirked at him, Eliot took another swig from his flask, and Alice just turned another page in her book. 

“Okay, my turn,” Eliot broke in.

\--

They kept playing, the flasks being passed around until Quentin had a decent buzz going. Day drinking was never really his thing, but it wasn’t like he had much else to do at the moment. During a particularly memorable turn, Eliot asked them their biggest childhood crush. The look of delight followed by the full body once-over from Eliot after Quentin admitted his was Tom Selleck, specifically from Magnum PI, was worth all the embarrassing things he’d said before that. 

Later, after Margo had extracted from Quentin the number of sexual encounters he’d had -- depressingly low, for which Margo ‘prude-shamed’ him, Eliot had said, and that it was ‘just as bad as slut-shaming,’ -- it was Quentin’s turn to ask. He was getting tired of them laughing at him and knew exactly what to ask to turn the tables. 

“Have you guys ever been in love?” he asked, feigning innocence. He knew they’d avoid the question.

Both Margo and Eliot immediately booed him. Margo threw a hairpin at his face. He just laughed and dodged the swat Eliot aimed at his head. The game fell apart after that, partially due to his lame question, but mostly because the flasks were empty.

\--

That night they settled in a small town made up of well-built, wooden houses. They weren’t that far from Whitespire and Quentin remembered the place was described in the books as a common travel stopover for the Chatwins. They stayed at an inn, each with their own room. Only the best for royalty, the innkeeper had said, in a way that Quentin knew they’d eventually owe him some kind of favor.

The next night was the same, another inn in a well-to-do town. But as they traveled farther and farther north, the towns became smaller and less accommodating. On the fifth night of traveling, they ended up making their own camp, too far from the next stop to continue on. Quentin didn’t mind, though, and it didn’t seem like anyone else did either. 

Quentin had been aching to stretch his legs, and thankfully they decided to stop midday instead of riding through until evening. Margo was directing camp set-up and Quentin promptly volunteered to go collect firewood, craving a walk away from so many people. Eliot chimed in quickly to join him, giving him a conspiratorial wink. Quentin suspected Eliot just didn’t want to help put up tents, but he didn’t mind the company if it was Eliot.

They wandered, mostly directionless, into the woods near their camp, picking up dry sticks and smaller branches. The sky had been a bruised grey all day, promising rain. As they were tying up the last bundle of wood to take back to camp, Eliot complaining about how dirty his hands were, a crack of thunder broke the serene forest ambience. The noise startled Quentin, and he suddenly remembered that he was far out into strange woods miles and miles away from any civilized town and at least a 30-minute walk back to their camp. But before fear really gripped him, Eliot did. Eliot’s hand closed on Quentin’s shoulder.

“I knew it was going to rain,” Eliot said, looking up, and sounding more delighted than scared or even annoyed. The spike of anxiety that had begun tightening Quentin’s chest immediately gave way, reminded that he wasn’t alone. And also, that he had magic (duh), as Eliot did a complicated hand motion that Quentin felt like he should know but was currently blanking on. Eliot grabbed his hand and started moving them quickly west. 

“Uh, isn’t our camp to the south?” Quentin asked, confused, as fat, cold drops of rain started landing on them. 

“Yes,” Eliot answered, not turning back to look at Quentin and also not elaborating. If Eliot knew what he was doing, then Quentin was happy enough to follow. Quentin had always felt like Eliot was the easiest to follow blindly. He was smart and skilled, and while that was also true of his other friends, Quentin thought Eliot was also the least likely to have some ulterior motive that Quentin found out at the last minute. But even if Eliot did have some secret agenda, at least it usually ended in fun.

Eliot pulled Quentin along, hands entwined together easily, and led them to the mouth of a small cave. Quentin may have missed it if Eliot hadn’t stopped right in front of it; the entrance was covered with long hanging plants, some blooming with tiny white flowers. Eliot waved a hand and some vines parted to let them in.

A shelter-detecting spell, then, Quentin deduced. Smart. He followed Eliot in to where he was currently doing some more spellwork to create some crude chairs with the rock and moss on the cave floor just inside the entrance. Well, usually the spell produced crude chairs, but Eliot’s were two gracefully inviting Adirondack-style chairs with a moss cushion. Eliot sat back with a sigh and stretched his long legs out, looking like he had intended a relaxing break all along.

Quentin laughed, impressed. “These look great,” he said sincerely. Eliot stared at him a beat and then tipped his head toward the other chair, enticing Quentin to sit. Quentin settled in, a slightly surreal feeling hovering. He looked at Eliot who was sitting so tall and close. Sometimes Eliot felt larger than life.

“Wait, why is your chair taller?” Quentin said, realizing he actually was too tall.

“I’m the High King,” Eliot said, like it was obvious. “I think it’s, like, a law that I have to be slightly elevated,” he continued, with a vague wave of his hand. 

Quentin gave him a look, knowing that wasn’t true. “We sit at the same height in the throne room, Eliot.”

“Do we, though?” Eliot said, smirking. 

Quentin opened his mouth to say absolutely yes, but...god, what if the thrones really were like two inches different? That seemed like it might be some stupid Fillory law. He wondered if Margo knew. No, he decided that if she had known, she would have immediately had the law rewritten and the thrones reconstructed.

“Margo doesn’t know, does she?” Quentin said.

Eliot looked at him sharply, a moment of surprise and then dread passing over his face. “No, and do not say anything. It’ll be a whole big thing,” he said, looking pained.

Quentin laughed aloud, delighted by this development. “How much taller is it?” 

“It’s barely over an inch,” Eliot answered. 

“Still surprised she hasn’t noticed,” Quentin snorted.

Eliot chuckled lightly back. Quentin settled into his seat, his legs tucked up close to his body. The rain was falling softer now and the thunder had traveled on. They must have only been hit by the edge of the storm. 

Eliot bent forward and pulled a tall and thin flask out from his sock, taking a short swig before he passed it to Quentin. Quentin realized then he was cold and how welcome a drink would be. They sat listening to the rain and sharing the flask. 

But then Eliot said softly, “You could come back, you know.”

Quentin stared blankly for a moment and then realized Eliot meant the throne room. He wanted Quentin to come back to court. Quentin lowered his eyes to the floor and didn’t say anything.

“It was just more fun with you there, Q. Feels more like real work without you, honestly. Everyone...has so many needs,” Eliot complained. “Plus I don’t want you to miss out on like, what has to be your lifelong fantasy lived out.”

Quentin had felt kind of disappointed when he stopped sitting in court, but he had talked himself into believing it just wasn’t for him. Who in their right mind would want him in charge? He could barely take care of himself some days. “I don’t really want to offend every Fillorian citizen.” 

“That guy was ridiculous,” Eliot said, knowing what he was referring to. “Plus, I think it’s illegal to be offended by a king, so next time we’ll just arrest them.” 

Quentin laughed softly and leaned all the way back in his chair. Eliot stared back at him with unblinking, sincere eyes and Quentin felt a bit too seen. 

“I’m hopeless with people, El,” he said with a soft smile.

“I mean, you were never hopeless with me,” Eliot answered with a shrug. He said it casually, like it was easy, like it was something anyone could say to him. It had been kind of easy for them, actually. From the moment he met Eliot, their lives had sort of merged effortlessly. Apparently Eliot’s point was that Quentin would be able to do that with other people, since he did it with Eliot. But Quentin has always viewed Eliot as an outlier, an anomaly in his life. 

The silence hung for a while, Quentin unsure how to respond, and Eliot sitting, looking nonchalant. If it weren’t for the way his fingers moved restlessly on the arm of the chair, Quentin might believe he wasn’t invested in the conversation.

Quentin opened his mouth to say something when Eliot stood up suddenly. 

“I think the rain’s stopped?” he said, reaching outside the cave to feel for drops. 

It had eased, and though Quentin could still see drops falling, they were slower, lazily dripping from the trees. 

“Probably should get going anyway, before it gets dark. And we should get back before Alice and Margo think I got you lost or maimed,” Eliot said again, not looking at Quentin now. 

Quentin stood and stretched, feeling slightly deferred, but Eliot was right that they should head back. “Probably be better than all the other ways I’ve died,” Quentin murmured.

“I must have gotten you killed in one of those, I’m sure,” Eliot said, at ease with the casual morbidity. Dying multiple times did that to you.

“Well then at least I probably died in style,” Quentin mused.

“I’ve always wanted to die with some sort of style. I mean, it’d be a much better send-off being able to Agatha Christie myself a suicide contraption after I’ve killed all my enemies with a martini in one hand and a letter detailing an international scandal in the other than, like...just dying in my sleep. Ugh.”

Quentin laughed as he swung a wood bundle around his back. Eliot did the same and they stepped back into the open air of the forest. Eliot held out his elbow, gesturing for Quentin to slip his arm through. It reminded Quentin of how Eliot would sometimes walk around with Margo when they wanted to gossip quietly between themselves. He took his arm easily and their walk back to camp turned into a leisurely stroll as they traded ways they would prefer to die and the dramatic merits of each. The clouds were clearing and bits of evening sky were peaking through, the tops of wet trees winking with the last rays of sun.

\--

On the eighth night, they finally made it to another large village settled into the never-ending forest they’d been working their way through. They arrived late in the evening, Quentin half asleep on Margo’s shoulder, who slapped his forehead, rather unnecessarily, when they rolled to a stop. Their party began bustling around, greeting the villagers that were there to meet them.

As Quentin tumbled out of the carriage, the cool wind felt like relief after a stuffy ride. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and tried to see what he could in the darkness. They were stopped on the edge of what seemed to be an endless sprawl of large tents. Quentin assumed the village had some sort of end, but it was impossible to see as the structures led into shadow and then darkness. The part of the village he could see was lit up with lines of torches all around the perimeter, weaving in and out of the trees and then along the village paths themselves. A few in the distance blinked out, snuffed as night settled cooly around them.

Quentin followed the attendant that had his trunk into the village. Eliot, Margo, and Alice were up ahead walking with two of the villagers. The pair looked ghostly pale in the torchlight and Quentin was hit with the strange, recurring thought that he was never sure who was human or not here. They were led to a small, private copse of trees with four tents clustered together. Quentin nodded goodnight to the attendant from their group and grabbed the handle of his trunk himself. Alice split off from their group and went directly into one of the tents, the villagers saying goodnight after that and leaving as well. It seemed like everyone was too tired for small talk.

A wave of exhaustion hit Quentin as he stood there outside of his tent, just a matter of feet away from a bed. He almost wasn’t sure he could make it the rest of the way there. Instead, he watched Eliot and Margo talking in quick, low voices near the entrance to another tent. Eliot was standing tall and looking down at Margo seriously and intently. The torchlight was flickering off his features, making them look softened and more dramatic at the same time. Sometimes it was still strange to see Eliot so stern and considering. He was used to Eliot’s veneer of seriousness he used to make his jokes land better. This version was a bit different, something he’d only rarely seen. The firelight glinted off the crystals on Eliot’s circlet and Quentin momentarily wondered if he should be wearing his. 

Margo said something to Eliot that Quentin couldn’t hear and, by the quirk of her eyebrow, he felt like it must have been sarcastic. Eliot turned to look over at Quentin, who was standing there doing nothing, stopped steps away from his own tent. Quentin felt caught, although he wasn’t sure why, and quickly looked up toward the canopy of trees above them. He began to raise his arm to point something out but quickly rethought it, feeling awkward. Instead, he just readjusted his grip on the trunk and dragged it forward once more.

“Goodnight, Q!” Margo called, a smile in her voice. Quentin just waved back at them and slipped into the tent gracelessly. 

God, why had he been just staring at Eliot? He’d been staring across the carriage at him for more than a week so it wasn’t new. He’d even seen him in that lighting before, firelight flickering prettily over his features. Like, yeah, Eliot was attractive, a sort of handsomeness that Quentin hadn’t really seen before, but seemed to fit perfectly in Fillory. It wasn’t news. It was weird how Quentin felt so at ease with Eliot and so awkward simultaneously, but he decided not to examine it.

As he shuffled inside, he dropped his trunk noisily at the end of the large, low bed. The floor was covered in layers of rugs and the rest lavishly decorated. A brazier was churning out heat in the corner and it was actually very cozy. Quentin shucked his pants and slipped into the bed. The golden lighting in here would probably suit Eliot as well, Quentin thought mindlessly as he finally turned over to sleep. 

\--

In the morning, they were offered breakfast with the village leaders in a large pavilion in the center of town. Quentin was fascinated by everything. The village seemed less mysterious but even more elaborate in the light of the morning. It stopped looking endless now that he could see the tree-lined border and into the forest. But the layout was winding and intricate, black-stoned paths leading between the large, painted tents, seemingly decorated by their owners in just about every color imaginable. The corner they were lodged in was quiet and calm, but as they walked further into the center, the bustle of village life was more obvious.

People were pinning open tent flaps, revealing little shops or places to eat. Some were starting chores or shooing out children. So far all the villagers he’d seen had pale, green-tinged skin, like moss might have been an ancestor to them. Beyond that and some of their strangely colored eyes, they seem to be mostly human-looking. Quentin didn’t remember any mention of similar people in the Fillory books.

The center of the village was a large stone fire pit with comfortable-looking, cushioned benches and other seating circling it. The air still smelled vaguely of charred wood despite the damp, dewy morning. Behind the fire pit stood the large tent where they were introduced to the village leaders and given their breakfast. Quentin said his hellos and then almost immediately forgot the strange names.

After the meal, a young man with a mossy-colored braid down his back stood and offered them a tour of their village. 

As they were led around, Quentin lagged behind everyone, vaguely listening to their guide but mostly trying to take in everything visually. This village was by far the most interesting place they’d been on this trip. They had mutually decided, after Quentin had pointed the place out on his map, to stay here a couple of days to rest. The constant travel was exhausting even if all they had to do was ride in a carriage. Closer to Whitespire, it had felt like the small towns could have fit in with the English countryside, quaint and outdated but still somehow familiar. But this place was nearly out of a fantasy novel. Which Quentin figured, technically, it was, so he was glad they had time to explore. 

They had started from the center firepit, which seemed to serve as a business and social meeting place. As they moved out farther, they got into more of the shops and cafes, large tents with open doorways and tables out front laden with various trinkets and food. The smell of charred meats and peppers floated on the air, sometimes mixed with a whiff of flowers and greenery. When they stopped at a table covered in large crystals being sold by an over-enthusiastic woman, Eliot muttered a quiet “buy my wares” joke that only Quentin seemed to get, laughing quietly and getting a small smile in return. 

Alice made them stop at a tent with tables of books outside and tall, tightly-packed shelves on the inside. Their guide was talking blandly about trade routes through Fillory that brought them their wide variety while Quentin browsed titles. From across the stall, Eliot picked up a book, holding it up toward Margo and Quentin, feigning shock with wide eyes and a slight smirk. The Fifty Shades Darker cover was immediately recognizable to Quentin, having already been traumatized finding it in his mom’s house. He barely had to fake the mimed retching he did in response. 

“Put that drivel down, El,” Margo said flatly with an eye roll. 

“I would love to have watched this book’s journey,” he said wistfully, tucking the book back into the rows on the table. 

Later, as their guide explained a traditional basket-weaving technique outside of a small tent, Quentin wandered off their path for a moment, distracted by a display of paintings, some of which looked like the Chatwins. He momentarily wondered if there’d be paintings of him like this eventually, a thought that almost made him laugh aloud. He stared at a small portrait of Jane, her face young and expression bland. It didn’t capture the real woman at all, something he could factually say. Sometimes - most times - he couldn’t quite believe that his life had ended up the way it had.

He wandered back and rejoined everyone, finding them stopped again, this time at a smithing tent. The tent was large and open with various metalwork and weapons hung up on racks outside or pinned to the walls. Somewhat surprisingly, Margo and Alice were standing together, talking normally. Margo did have a dark, glittering axe in her hand, but it looked more like she was asking for Alice’s input than anything else. Eliot was standing just inside the tent, talking to the rather muscly-looking blacksmith. 

Quentin stopped to stand next to their tour guide and asked him if the Chatwins had ever visited here during their reign. The guide answered in the affirmative (exciting), but then launched into a story about the village’s history of portraiture (less exciting). 

Margo and Alice thankfully rejoined Quentin and the guide, putting an end to the dry story he’d still been telling. Margo stood a few steps away from them, giving herself space to swing the axe a bit. Quentin could see flecks of purple and blues in the dark metal head as it glinted in the sun. 

“That’s cool,” Quentin said, nodding to the weapon. Margo settled and walked back to stand by Quentin. “The colors and stuff,” he added. 

“Yeah I’m already envisioning like three different royal outfits it’ll match perfectly,” she said, turning the axe in the light so it sparkled more obviously. “He was telling me what metal it was,” she continued, nodding toward the blacksmith that still had Eliot’s attention. “And I didn’t even understand what words he was saying so I obviously had to have it.” 

Quentin huffed in amusement, but didn’t answer. It was quiet for a beat before Margo continued, her voice softer. 

“I keep thinking this place feels like being inside a fantasy book, until I realize that it literally is,” she said with a slight laugh. Quentin looked at her sharply, hearing his exact thoughts from earlier aloud. 

“I was like, just thinking that same thing,” he said. Quentin felt a surge of affection for her. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be used to the feeling of commonality he stumbled into in this new life.

“I figured you had,” she said, only partly teasing him. Quentin smiled at her and she winked before promptly ruining the moment. “Come on, El, we got shit to do!” she yelled at Eliot. Their guide started back down the path, Margo and Alice following. 

Quentin lingered a bit, waiting for Eliot to join him, but Eliot seemed like he couldn’t tear himself away from the blacksmith. They were standing very close and Eliot was smiling, hand on the blacksmith’s forearm as he laughed. With a pang of jealousy, Quentin realized they were flirting and suddenly felt awkward for staring. He felt a blush climb up his face as he looked away and shuffled down the path a few steps.

He wasn’t sure why he felt jealous when Eliot tended to flirt with more people than not. Maybe he’d just felt like they were getting closer on this trip. He felt stupid for feeling like he had any sort of claim on Eliot after seeing him flirt with someone else right in front of him. Of course nothing had changed between them from Eliot’s point of view.

Quentin’s self-flagellation was interrupted when Eliot finally rejoined him and said, “Did she just buy an axe? We have so many at home.”

Quentin let out a breath of laughter. “There are like thirty axes in the armory, yeah,” he agreed. 

“At least thirty,” Eliot said, laughing. “Not to mention the swords. And that spiky-ball thing.”

“Mace,” Quentin supplied, smiling. He felt better with Eliot walking beside him again.

They had caught up with the group by then and Eliot immediately said to Margo, “Bambi, you haven’t even tried all the axes at home.”

Quentin listened to them bicker back and forth, feeling a familiar kind of comfort. They were still friends, obviously, and Quentin knew not much would change that. He could ignore the newfound jealousy.

\--

Later that night, invited back to the large meeting tent and seated at a long table with village officials, they ate a woodsy but lavish dinner. All of the place settings were slightly mismatched in a homey, handmade sort of way. The food looked a little like a trendy vegan meal, but with more creative uses for conifer trees. It was strange, but Quentin had had worse. He ate most of it despite not knowing what some of it was. Next to him, Margo muttered about weird plant people and their terrible culinary choices as she chewed on what Quentin was pretty sure was a foreign-looking mushroom.

Dinner was a raucous affair, wine flowing freely and the tent filled with laughter and conversation. Quentin mostly kept quiet and listened to the chatter around him. Even Alice looked like she was having a good time, engaged in conversation with a regal looking older woman. Eliot was at the opposite end of the table, clearly the center of attention of those around him. Quentin sometimes envied his ability to speak comfortably with anyone he met, but at the moment he was just happy to sit back and watch his friends enjoy themselves.

After the meal, their tour guide from earlier rose and invited everyone outside to sit around the fire as an informal welcome party for the Fillory royalty. Everyone clapped, looking toward the four of them, and Quentin wasn’t sure what to do with his face. He didn’t think he’d ever get over the feeling that he was some sort of impostor in his own life.

Their party filtered outside to the long stone benches and wooden chairs that circled the firepit. A bonfire was already crackling as Quentin made his way outside with everyone else. Margo was walking ahead, continuing her dinner conversations as she walked with her new companions. She’d made friends with two large men and an even larger woman at dinner; her area had been the loudest with laughter and chatter at dinner. She settled with them along a bench and one of the men shouted for more drinks to be brought outside.

Quentin followed some of his dinner companions and sat on the bench beside them. He hadn’t really talked with them beyond some painful pleasantries before the meal. One of them handed him a drink, and then they were politely (and thankfully) ignoring him again. 

Alice came out next talking quickly with two identical-looking women. They settled across the fire from Quentin, the flames partially obscuring his view. He could see some strange light coming from one woman’s hands, some unrecognizable magic. Alice smiled at it, which was nice to see, all things considered. 

Quentin took a sip from his drink. It was perfectly hot and heady with spices and alcohol. The night was chill and crisp but warm around the fire, and it felt like fall. Above them, trees towered in a circle planted around the benches and fire. Stars twinkled down through the pines and they looked different than he’d ever seen them. He was momentarily overcome by where he was and how absolutely surreal it was. He felt lighter than he had in a long time. 

Quentin watched the sky, looking for shooting stars; he assumed that would happen anywhere in space, regardless of which world they were on, and then he got caught up thinking about where they were exactly in space. It made his head hurt to think about the logistics of multiple worlds. A log cracked loudly in the fire, and he was startled back into the present. He glanced around guiltily, feeling like he’d lost time, but no one was paying him much attention.

As he looked around, he noticed Eliot walking down the stone path toward the fire, fashionably late to the party. The light spilling from the tent behind him lit his hair around the edges in a warm glow. His attention was on his companion walking beside him, the blacksmith from earlier. The blacksmith was nicely dressed for dinner, his arms covered, and Eliot was talking to him comfortably. Eliot made a flippant gesture like he did when he was complaining and Quentin suddenly wished he could hear him. 

The pair sat down in an open space a few benches away. Eliot lifted a leg up to sit in his seat sideways, facing the blacksmith, who was leaning toward him quite a lot more than seemed fully necessary for conversation. Quentin glanced away from them, determined to look elsewhere, feeling like he was intruding. But his eyes kept coming back to Eliot. Again, firelight flickered across his face and Quentin felt his chest tighten. 

Quentin couldn’t look away from the way Eliot and the blacksmith were tipping toward each other. Couldn’t look away from the way Eliot’s arm was resting on the back of the bench almost touching the man’s shoulder. Something the blacksmith said made Eliot laugh and his smile was big and open. 

It’d become rarer and rarer to see Eliot laugh like that. To see any of them laugh like that, really. Sometimes he still couldn’t get Eliot’s bleeding, dead face out of his mind from the many times he’d watched him die horribly. And all the responsibility and high stakes of being a king had often made Eliot look wan and serious. And that was an interesting side of him in itself, seeing Eliot be actually serious about something. But Quentin found he was more relieved than he’d imagined to see Eliot at ease in a moment they weren’t in mortal peril. Even if it was a moment Quentin probably shouldn’t be staring at.

Eliot responded to whatever the blacksmith had said with a smirk and it was the blacksmith’s turn to laugh. Quentin thought about trying to re-engage his dinner companions again. Ask them questions about the village, try to get caught up in curiosity and conversation instead of fixating on Eliot.

But then the blacksmith ran his fingers up Eliot’s arm and Eliot raised an eyebrow, saying something with a quirk of his lips. The blacksmith said something in response and then boldly closed the space between them. Eliot leaned into the kiss, his hand sliding up the blacksmith’s neck to hold him there. Quentin knew it was definitely time to look away from them. But he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the way Eliot tilted his head to take control of the kiss. 

Quentin had seen Eliot kissing, making out, “tongue fucking” (as Margo accused Eliot of once), etc., many times at Brakebills, but he’d never been this glued to it before. Seeing blasé-college-Eliot kiss people in dim parties while everyone, including Quentin, was at least some kind of drunk was very different than seeing High-King-of-Fillory-Eliot kiss someone while on a diplomatic, anti-war mission. It felt far more real. 

Then Eliot’s eyes opened languidly mid-kiss and almost furtively scanned over to meet Quentin’s. Quentin inhaled sharply in surprise, holding his breath; lost in his fixation, he’d kind of forgotten anyone could even see him. Eliot’s eyes widened slightly in response, like he was surprised to see Quentin looking right back at him. He didn’t look away, waiting for Eliot to do it first for some reason, to close his eyes, focus on the kiss. But he didn’t. And Quentin didn’t either. The breath he’d been holding rushed out of him. Eye contact had never been his thing really, but he felt like a deer in the headlights at the moment. And then Eliot got this knowing look, once he realized Quentin wouldn’t look away, and then Quentin really did feel like a deer, like prey. 

Eliot gripped the blacksmith’s neck tighter and moved him slightly so Eliot could deepen the kiss, turn it filthy, and his eyes stayed on Quentin the entire time. Quentin could see Eliot’s hand flex with the pressure he was using on the blacksmith’s neck. Quentin swallowed and felt his own neck tingle with a ghost of a sensation, remembering that same gesture on himself. Quentin was sure that Eliot knew exactly what he was thinking just then, with the way he looked amused even mid-kissing.

Quentin quickly glanced away, his eyes darting around the fire to see if anyone was staring at them. He felt like they were causing a scene, with the way Eliot had his fingers lewdly weaved into the blacksmith’s hair, with the way Quentin’s heart was beating loudly in his chest. But no one seemed to notice anything, everyone still chatting like nothing significant was happening. There were even a few other couples sitting closely, mouths inches apart and focused on each other. No one was paying him any mind. 

Quentin’s eyes roved back over to Eliot, up the column of his long neck, meeting his eyes that were still glued to Quentin. Then Eliot pulled away from the kiss and used his grip in the blacksmith’s hair to stop him from following Eliot’s mouth. To stop him from doing what Eliot didn’t want and make him do what Eliot did want. Quentin remembered that too, remembered how easily Eliot controlled what he did. How fucking hot it was when it’d been him in Eliot’s grip. 

Sometimes, usually after masturbating about it, Quentin would silently wonder if their threesome was amazing just because of the emotional hangover or because it was objectively the best sex of his life. He’d compartmentalized so much of it that he hadn’t considered it as much as he should have. He hadn’t really considered the experience when trying to figure out what exactly he liked or wanted. He knew he preferred someone else to lead, but he’d always assumed that was just because he was awkward and unsure. And in the past, letting someone else lead hadn’t really worked for him anyway; he’d let Alice mostly run the show and she certainly hadn’t been satisfied.

But the kind of leading Eliot did had felt immediately different. It still felt different seeing it now, and he wasn’t even with Quentin. A bubble of panic formed in his chest as he suddenly, desperately wished he was in place of the blacksmith. 

Eliot had allowed the kiss again and now he was staring at Quentin while sucking on the blacksmith’s bottom lip. Quentin’s mouth fell open a bit, his breath going shallow. God, was this fucked up? He should really look away. But Eliot’s eyes were wide, blown out, and glued to his, and he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

The blacksmith pulled their mouths apart and started kissing Eliot’s jaw and down to his neck. Eliot leaned back, to give him more access, using the freedom to fully turn toward Quentin. Eliot was staring at him openly now, eyes hooded but intent. Quentin blinked, truly lost for what to do now. His palms felt sweaty and Eliot smiled very slightly when his eyes flicked down to Quentin rubbing them on his thighs nervously. 

The blacksmith started fully sucking on Eliot’s neck then and Quentin felt abruptly uncomfortable. He imagined Eliot having a mark there tomorrow and having to see it and know exactly what it was and— Quentin suddenly stood up in a jerky, unsure way. The people around him looked up at him, away from their conversations, like they just remembered he was there.

Eliot straightened a bit, his face more alert than before but still looking at Quentin. Quentin stared for a moment longer, annoyed at this plan of action he had apparently taken. Then the blacksmith broke the seal on Eliot’s neck to look over at Q as well. Quentin’s face felt suddenly hot with all the attention on him. He rolled his eyes upwards, closed them briefly, and did the only thing he could think of: he left. He had to pass Eliot to exit the circle and he could feel his eyes on him, hot and searching. But Quentin didn’t look again and he was quickly on the path winding back through the village. 

\--

Quentin flopped face-first onto the bed when he got back to his tent. He let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since he first watched Eliot walk toward the fire. God, fuck Eliot’s face in firelight. It was fucking distracting. Quentin rolled onto his back, rubbing his hands over his face. Why did anyone let him out in public? If he could have just stayed at Whitespire, camped out in the library, this never would have happened. Just staring voyeuristically at Eliot making out with someone else...what was he doing?

He flung his arms out on the bed in defeat. What would happen tomorrow? Would they just ignore it? He kind of hoped they’d just ignore it. He didn’t want Eliot to look at him differently. Looking at him like he loved Quentin but just not like that and only felt benevolent sympathy for his awkward friend. A familiar look, honestly. Although, they’ve completely ignored things between them before. And it had worked out fine. He was grateful to have Eliot in his life in any way. Quentin had never had a lot of friends; usually more than two was a stretch. Quentin felt so grateful to Eliot this trip, and Margo. They were just easy to be around.

So Quentin hoped to god they could just ignore whatever had happened at the fire. And he also hoped that maybe one day he could stop being weird. That’d be great. He pressed his hands over his eyes again, annoyed at himself and everything, until he saw spots. 

Then he heard the sound of sure footsteps clicking on the slate path outside. 

“Q? Are you in there?” 

Quentin sat up, his heart already pounding hard with nerves. Eliot being there didn’t bode well for Ignoring Things. He stood, smoothed his shirt down anxiously, rolled his eyes at himself, and walked to the entrance. He opened the tent flap to reveal Eliot standing right outside, closer than Quentin thought he’d be. He sometimes forgot how tall Eliot was until he was standing right next to him. He suddenly felt small, and he wasn’t sure if it was in a good or bad way. Eliot’s shirt was still open casually at the top. Quentin passed his eyes over Eliot’s chest to his neck, a little red but nothing overly obvious. Quentin’s ears felt a little hot with embarrassment for checking at all.

“Not really a way to knock on these, huh?” Eliot said in a way that was a bit too casual to be genuine. Then, “Can I come in?”

Quentin stood back and gestured him in. Eliot walked in and sat easily on the bed, leaning back on his arms. He looked so long and seemed to take up so much space. Eliot always had a way of filling a room with his presence. Quentin had never met anyone that commanded space like Eliot did. He used to find it distracting (sometimes it still was), but lately it was comforting more than anything. Right now it was overwhelming. And slightly annoying. How was he always so cool in any situation? Quentin tried to cling to the annoyance instead of the nervous beating of his heart.

Quentin walked past Eliot to lean against the low chest along the side of the tent, folding his arms and facing Eliot. Eliot looked at him and at the chest in an amused, knowing way; it was the same look he’d given him around the fire when he realized Q wasn’t going to look away. Quentin could feel heat traveling up his neck to meet his ears at the thought and knew he’d been very transparent in choosing to stand across the room. Keeping his distance was more of a declaration that they weren’t ignoring it than if he had just sat next to Eliot on the bed. He suddenly felt very seen. And also kind of stupid after just wishing they could ignore it, wishing that so Eliot wouldn’t look at him with pity. But Eliot wasn’t looking at him like that. He was looking at Quentin with a slight smirk that would be more condescending if it wasn’t coupled with an obvious fondness. (It was still pretty condescending.)

After a moment of silence, Eliot stood up and walked over to stand in front of him. Quentin swallowed and uncrossed his arms, leaning back with his hands on the edge of the chest behind him so he could look up at Eliot.

“I feel like that wasn’t a follow-me-and-fuck-me-mindless kind of walking away and more of a mad-at-me kind of walking away?” Eliot said with that same knowing and fond look.

Quentin’s brain tripped over the phrase “fuck me mindless” before it caught up to what Eliot was actually saying. 

“I’m not--why would I be mad at you?” Quentin said back, his eyes flitting away from Eliot’s unwavering gaze and back again.

“Well, my guess is that it had something to do with my and the blacksmith’s close...conversation,” Eliot said, smirking like he was funny. Quentin rolled his eyes.

“I feel like your conversation maybe wasn’t appropriate for the Elders’ Circle?” Quentin said. 

“Oh, could you hear us?” Eliot said, his smile turning broad and teasing. Quentin huffed an unwanted laugh and pushed Eliot a step back in retaliation. 

“Fuck off,” he said, but he was suppressing a smile. Eliot’s charm was always disarming, and Quentin had no real defense for it. 

Now there was more space between them, Q felt the moment hang in the air. Eliot was standing a step back, the tension broken from the joke. It felt like a potential out. Eliot could just laugh it off, having acknowledged it, and step back further. Give them space from each other. Act like the whole evening was just a fluke. Quentin stood still, barely daring to breathe, waiting for Eliot to make the choice. To step back and put the casual distance between them back in place. 

Quentin, again, thought that’d probably be for the best. Liking your friend always led to more pain than seemed worth it. Sometimes he wondered how things would be now if he had just stayed friends with Alice. Or even just stayed foxes, infinitely simpler. Because now it seemed like she hated him. And Quentin couldn’t really imagine what he’d do if Eliot hated him. Maybe Eliot would take the out. Brush it off, say something playfully biting, bid Quentin a good night. Probably go back to the fire and find the blacksmith. Bring him back to Eliot’s own tent. Fuck him mindless instead. So Quentin could hear all the sounds Eliot made, even from afar. 

But Eliot didn’t. Instead he took two steps toward Quentin again so they were even closer than before. Quentin sucked in a breath and flexed his fingers on the edge of the chest. Eliot leaned down and Quentin’s stomach swooped, Eliot’s face pausing just a breath away from his. God, he felt wound up already. Eliot’s eyes flicked over Quentin’s face, his pupils wide in the dim light, apparently waiting for Quentin to object, but Quentin just looked back, unmoving. Then Eliot tilted his head slightly and leaned in the rest of the way. 

Their lips touched and Quentin already felt lost in it, his eyes slipping shut. He pressed closer and let his mouth slacken slightly, fitting their mouths more solidly together. Eliot lightly sucked on Quentin’s bottom lip. 

Eliot’s hands were resting on Quentin’s sides until he smoothed his palms back to wrap around Quentin’s waist in a languid movement that made Quentin melt and arch toward him. Eliot pulled him all the way in so their bodies were flush together just as he deepened their kiss, his tongue slipping into Quentin’s mouth, slow and exploratory. Quentin brought his arms up to wrap around Eliot’s neck, pushing one hand into the hair at his nape. Eliot hummed, pleased, and Quentin felt dazed at how seamless it all felt.

Quentin remembered his wish that it had been him Eliot was kissing around the fire, and now here he was, Eliot’s mouth finally on his. He imagined they were still sitting around the fire, Eliot kissing him in front of everyone, putting his mark on Quentin for everyone to see. Quentin pressed up closer still, pushing up on his toes, and Eliot easily held his weight up against him. 

Eliot broke the kiss, giving Quentin air while he kissed down his jaw. Quentin tilted his head instinctively to give him better access and Eliot moved his hands down to grip hotly at the backs of Quentin’s thighs. He could feel the trail Eliot’s hands made like a brand down his back and ass. Then Eliot picked Quentin up easily, taking a step forward to set Quentin atop the chest behind him. Heat shot up his spine at being lifted so easily and deftly. Eliot had always been easy with touches, and that included pulling or leading him places, usually by the hand or arm. He’d never just grabbed Quentin’s entire body and put him somewhere. Quentin’s head swam with it, and he felt like he was right where he should be.

Eliot, his hands on Quentin’s knees now, pushed his legs apart farther than really necessary, making them burn pleasurably with the stretch. Eliot pressed closer to kiss him again and Quentin felt breathless. He pulled Quentin flush against him with a sharp tug from the back of his knees. With Quentin sitting where he was, their groins matched up perfectly, and he could feel the heat from Eliot’s cock line up against his. 

“Fuck,” Quentin breathed, not fully meaning to say that aloud. Just...how was Eliot so good at this? Quentin had kind of already accepted that sex would always be an awkward affair for him. And that could sometimes have a certain charm, being so eager and caught up that you make mistakes. Laughing a bit at the funnier moments when it went wrong. But then Eliot rolled his hips slightly and Quentin couldn’t think about anything before this. Everything felt so deliberate, engineered to wind him up. It was overwhelming. 

Eliot untucked Quentin’s shirt and ran his fingertips lightly along Quentin’s bare skin, just above his hips, leaving behind an electrifying prickle. Quentin’s hands tightened in Eliot’s hair and Eliot moaned just as he reconnected their mouths. Quentin felt absorbed in this moment. He couldn’t think about anything but Eliot’s mouth and the way his hands were slipping below Quentin’s waistband to grip his ass. Quentin’s cock jumped at the contact and he felt Eliot smile while he pressed his hips more into Quentin, cocks aligned and hardening together. 

Reality rushed back when a loud laugh cut through their heavy breathing, sounding close to their tent. Quentin jumped at the realization that things existed outside of the way Eliot’s body felt against his, and he pulled away from Eliot’s mouth. Another few laughs rang into the night but this time they were farther away, voices fading out as the group moved on. Quentin leaned back on his hands, slipping them out of Eliot’s hair, relieved no one was coming toward them and also oddly bereft that the intensity of the moment was slightly broken. 

Their eyes drifted back to each other’s, Eliot’s hands still resting on Quentin’s hips underneath his shirt. Eliot’s face was flushed but unreadable. Quentin felt nervous that the moment was shattered, that this was another out Eliot could take. But Eliot took a breath, his eyes flitting down to Quentin’s mouth. Quentin resisted the urge to let his hand wander up to touch his lips. 

Eliot was quiet for a beat more, and then, “You sure about this?” he asked, meeting Quentin’s eyes, unblinking, like this was important.

Quentin didn’t have a thought in his head before he immediately replied, “God, yes, please.” But then his thoughts caught up to him and he added, nervously, “I mean...if you are, yeah, then uh...yes.”

Eliot smiled, eyes glancing down toward where they were still pressed together, Eliot clearly hard, and said, “Obviously.”

Quentin flushed, heat burning low in his gut, and felt momentarily speechless, overwhelmed with Eliot’s attention, knowing that he had made him hard. Eliot gave him a heated, searching look for a moment before apparently coming to a decision and lifting Quentin up again, hands firm on his ass. Eliot stepped away from the chest, and Quentin, stomach dropping in surprise, instinctively wrapped his legs around Eliot. Quentin had never been with someone this much bigger than him, and the thrill of being so easily lifted and moved was very new. The relief that came with being so obviously wanted was also very new and made Quentin feel much less nervous. 

Quentin braced himself to be dropped on the bed, but instead, Eliot put a knee on the bed and slowly bent over, lowering Quentin down onto his back. He seamlessly fit himself right between Quentin’s still-splayed legs, which was an unfairly smooth and sexy move, although Quentin had a momentary fantasy about Eliot tossing him onto a bed roughly. Maybe that was something to explore another time, the hopeful thought came unbidden.

Eliot fit his nose under Quentin’s jaw, pushing his chin up so Eliot could suck on his neck. It felt almost like a nuzzle, a thought that made Quentin close his eyes and tip his head back further. Teeth grazed the tendon in his neck, and then a tongue followed the same path.

Quentin could feel Eliot’s long fingers slip under his shirt and slide up his sides. His touch was light, just a tease that had Quentin arching his back slightly to push into Eliot’s hands. Eliot took the hint and pressed down harder, driving Quentin back against the bed with a surprised exhale. With his shirt rucked up, Eliot leaned back over him, lips ghosting over Quentin’s ribs with a purposeful breath over a nipple. Quentin already felt hot and agitated like it wasn’t enough. That thought made him flush with embarrassment; hardly anything had even happened yet. He felt an urge to cover his heated face with his hands in a futile attempt to hide the blush that was already moving down his chest. But Eliot’s face had roved back up to Quentin’s, his lips parting to suck on his jaw.

“God, I’ve been waiting forever for this,” Eliot breathed hotly over the same spot. Quentin had forgotten what he’d wanted to do with his hands so they lay useless near his head. Eliot, as always, knew exactly what to do with his as he thumbed Quentin’s nipple. Quentin could barely think with all the sensory input.

“El, we have done this,” Quentin said, momentarily incapable of not being contrary. But maybe he just wanted the clarification, wanted Eliot’s exact meaning. Quentin turned his head to try to catch Eliot’s mouth once more, worried he’d been obviously purposely obtuse again. But Eliot pulled back just out of reach. 

“Not like this, not you and me,” he said, holding Quentin’s gaze for only a moment. 

Quentin’s heart pounded almost painfully. Then Eliot tilted his head and leaned in again  
to capture Q’s mouth at the perfect angle. Eliot wrapped his hand around the side of Quentin’s neck, his thumb brushing over Quentin’s bottom lip. Quentin’s mouth fell open without a thought and Eliot kissed him deeper and dirtier. 

Eliot broke the kiss finally and said, “Take your clothes off.” 

He leaned back, still kneeling between Quentin’s legs. Quentin got his shirt off easily enough, but the ankle of his pants got stuck around his foot. Quentin tried to shake it off, quickly becoming slightly embarrassed. Why was he always so fucking inept? This was not sexy. He muffled a groan of annoyance and sat up to try to reach his foot. Eliot laughed and put his hand on Quentin’s leg to still him. He neatly pulled the pants free and tossed them aside. He was smirking at Quentin who stared back at him helplessly. 

“Now do me,” Eliot said, his smirk widening as he gestured to his own clothes. Quentin wanted to do better this time, wanted to not be so artless. He took a deep breath and got up on his knees. He felt both better and regretful he was still in his briefs, not fully naked yet. He happily noticed his fingers weren’t shaking too badly, just glad for a clear task to focus on. Eliot’s shirt was fastened with an intimidating row of deep blue buttons, but thankfully the top half was already undone in his usual fashion. Quentin unhooked them without incident, and Eliot hummed a slight approval. 

Quentin lifted himself further up on his knees and ran his hands to Eliot’s shoulders, pushing the shirt off. Eliot wrapped a free hand around Quentin’s waist, pulling their bare chests flush together. His other hand wrapped around the back of Quentin’s neck, the exact way he’d been imagining earlier. His moan was cut off by Eliot’s lips back on his. They kissed for a long moment like that, Eliot holding Quentin against him. His hand dipped below the waist of Quentin’s briefs. He felt hot and liquid and he couldn’t help slightly rutting against Eliot, eager to feel more of him.

But then Eliot pulled away and pushed Quentin, hand on his chest until he toppled backward onto the wealth of pillows behind him. Quentin could feel himself grinning while Eliot looked at him with an amused hunger. The look turned hotter and ravenous as Eliot started to pull down Quentin’s underwear. Quentin’s cock sprung free and, since he was harder than he’d ever been in his life, slapped upward onto his stomach. Eliot was still only shirtless and Quentin started to squirm with embarrassment. 

“El, this isn’t very even,” Quentin complained, resisting the urge to cover himself somehow. Eliot’s smirk just widened as he tossed Quentin’s briefs over the side of the bed. 

“That was your job, it’s not my fault you didn’t finish it,” Eliot said. 

“Yes, it is, you’re very distracting,” his point proven as Eliot ran his hands down Quentin’s thighs, gripping the backs of his knees again and pulling Quentin more into the center of the bed.

“And you’re very easy,” Eliot said back. 

Quentin didn’t have the capacity nor the time to process that insult when Eliot bent down and licked firmly at the head of his cock. Quentin startled slightly at the feeling, Eliot’s hot breath making him shiver, and staring down at Eliot as his mouth closed over him. Eliot looked up to meet his eyes, curls falling over his forehead, eyes bright and his face flushed. 

Quentin had enjoyed his hookups with guys before well enough. But he always felt more struck by the beauty of women, always felt women were just generally more beautiful than men. But no one was beautiful like Eliot. Big expressive eyes and dark, curling hair. He was like an Austen hero come to life with a Byronic twist. So seeing that between his legs, cheeks hollowing around his cock as he took more of him into his mouth, was truly a lot to handle. 

“Can--uh, can I?” Quentin said lamely, hand coming up and hovering near Eliot’s head. He was loath to interrupt but didn’t want to assume. Eliot slid his mouth off torturously slow. 

“Please,” Eliot said graciously, like he was inviting Quentin in. Quentin’s dick twitched at that and Eliot smirked down at it. Quentin threaded his fingers slowly into Eliot’s hair as Eliot took him back in his mouth. Quentin’s gasped and his grip tightened more than he intended when Eliot slid his cock deep into the back of his throat with seemingly little effort.

Eliot moaned then, gratified with the hair-pulling. The vibration and the tight, wet heat had Quentin holding on harder and bowing up into Eliot’s mouth, pressing deeper. He felt a spike of panic, not meaning to force his way in more, but then Eliot moaned again and pushed Quentin down by the hips. He was pinned down as Eliot sucked him harder, more fevered for it, like Quentin’s dick in his mouth was the only thing in the world. 

“Eliot, I’m--” he shuddered, “I’m kind of close, ah--” A slight understatement as Quentin felt like his skin was on fire and the world was melting down around him from the heat. 

Eliot hummed, which was not helpful, but pulled off. He sat back on his knees again, hand pushing his wild hair back. Quentin was staring at him, breathing heavily, so transfixed he forgot that he was entirely naked and leaking on himself, spread out for Eliot, who was still half-clothed. 

Until Eliot said, “Look at you,” in a low voice. The embarrassment rushed back to him, but dulled this time, second to the feeling of being wanted from the obvious heat in Eliot’s voice. Eliot stared down at him, his eyes flicking all over Quentin’s body. He looked greedy and covetous, staring at him like he was in awe or disbelief. Quentin had never been looked at like that and he’d never felt so naked in every sense of the word. It was heady and slightly overwhelming. Quentin, who always preferred to blend into the wallpaper when he could, felt a secret kind of thrill at being so obviously wanted, at being the center of Eliot’s attention.

“I want you to finish for me,” Eliot said, kind of breathily. “With your hand,” he amended when Quentin opened his mouth to speak. Quentin lost his train of thought at that. He had been enjoying the attention, but now it felt like a spotlight was on him. He opened his mouth again to explain but snapped it shut again. He didn’t want to say no, but he definitely didn’t know how to say yes. Or even why he would. He only wanted Eliot’s hands on him, distracting him, teasing him. What was this for?

Eliot broke the silence. “Show me what you like,” he said sweetly, in a way that almost felt like a pickup line. 

“I don’t even know, El,” Quentin said, annoyed and huffy.

“I don’t mean with other people, Q, I’ve clearly got that covered. Just what you like with yourself, alone,” Eliot said, the end of that turning almost gentle. Eliot’s hands were on Quentin’s knees, holding them slightly splayed open. 

“I don’t--” Quentin started.

“Q,” Eliot said, tilting his head down at him sternly. Quentin rolled his eyes exasperatedly, but there was a curl of heat settling in him from the insistence that kind of ruined the annoyance. Eliot probably knew that too. Dick.

“I--okay,” Quentin said, giving in finally, more easily than he’d have thought. Eliot looked pleased in a heated way as Quentin grabbed his own dick and started thumbing the tip, smearing the precome with the wetness from Eliot’s mouth. Quentin’s whole body flooded with more of this brand new kind of embarrassment. It was that familiar, gut-sinking feeling that he always hated but now with a twist of eagerness, like he didn’t actually want it to stop. 

Quentin stared up at the ceiling, trying to focus on his dick more than Eliot being right there, because he was just too much to think about if Quentin wanted to remember how to use his hands. Quentin gripped himself, squeezing the shaft at the base, and let out a breath as he started lightly stroking, still nervous. But then Eliot got a firmer grip on his knees, spreading them a little wider and Quentin’s eyes snapped to his. 

Quentin sped up the pace, hand sliding easily with how wet he was, while Eliot stared back, his pupils blown wide and his hair falling back into his face. Quentin usually shied away from eye contact during sex (and life in general), knowing that it made him feel pressured and nervous. And he absolutely felt that with his eyes locked on Eliot’s, but he also felt riveted and pinned. He felt like he had to be looked at for this to work; it had felt weirder pretending he was alone. 

But now he’d found a rhythm beneath Eliot’s gaze, feeling emboldened by Eliot’s obviously rapt attention. He relaxed slightly, stroking more naturally like he did on his own, hand coming up to work around the sensitive, slick head of his cock. He exhaled harshly, remembering how fucking good it had felt when Eliot swallowed him all the way into the back of his throat. Quentin was sweating, his hair sticking to his forehead, and he felt close already.

Eliot was the one to finally break contact as his eyes flit down to watch Quentin’s hand work over his dick. Eliot drank him in and then looked back up at his face, like he couldn’t decide which was the better view. Quentin felt agitated now, unsure how to accept a look like that. He instead stared at Eliot’s hand on his knee, distracted by his long fingers gripping him. 

As Quentin stared, Eliot’s hand slid smoothly and slowly up Quentin’s thigh, gripping his hip, his other hand still on Quentin’s other knee, holding his legs open. Eliot squeezed his hip hard, grounding him, apparently not intending to move it any further. But the thought of him being so close to where Quentin was touching himself, maybe about to put his hand over Quentin’s, shot a bolt of heat to Quentin’s groin. 

“Um--,” Quentin said, about to come, not entirely sure why he spoke. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to come, even though Eliot had said finish for me. 

Eliot just hummed instinctively in approval anyway, and Quentin only had to pump himself once more until he came with a moan, shooting onto his own stomach and some on Eliot’s hand where it still rested on his hip. Eliot looked at the mess Quentin had made, and then met Quentin’s eyes as he brought his hand to his mouth and licked his fingers clean. Quentin’s mind felt slow and blissed-out as he watched with wide-eyed attention.

“You are,” Eliot said as he crawled up over him, face now close to Quentin’s, “incandescently gorgeous like this.” 

“Ugh,” Quentin said, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, embarrassed. No one had ever spoken to him like that, and he didn’t know what to do with the praise. Then he felt Eliot’s long fingers pulling his hands away.

“Okay, now that that’s out the way, you’re gonna keep your hands up here for me,” Eliot said, gingerly placing Quentin’s wrists above his head. 

Eliot leaned down to kiss Quentin while he held his wrists above his head, hips between Qunetin’s spread legs. Quentin felt himself relax into the kiss, enjoying Eliot’s weight pressing down on him. He felt looser and calmer and let Eliot deepen the kiss, opening his mouth and stroking his tongue against Eliot’s. 

Then Eliot ground his still-clothed groin against Quentin’s sensitive cock, evidently not caring that he was getting come on his pants. Quentin moaned into Eliot’s mouth and tried squirming away, oversensitive, feeling overwhelmed and undone. But Eliot held his hands above him tightly and he couldn’t move away. He tried again, a little wilder, but Eliot’s hips had him pressed down. Quentin moaned again, involuntarily, and turned his head away from their kiss to pant. 

Eliot trailed lower, sucking spots of color down Quentin’s neck and onto his collarbone. His mouth found a hollow in the dip of Quentin’s neck that made him shudder, surprised by his own reaction. Eliot finally let go of Quentin’s wrists to hold himself up while he laved his tongue over that same spot, his hips still flush against Quentin’s, grinding against him in a way that was starting to make Quentin go a little mad. He breathed hotly over the spot on his neck and then sucked again. Quentin wanted to squirm away again but his movements just made the friction even more devastating.

“Eliot!” Quentin pleaded, his voice sounding punched out even to himself. Eliot lifted his head, his face a perfect mask of innocence like he didn’t know exactly what he was doing. Quentin’s breath was coming fast. One more moment of Eliot grinding against him and sucking on his neck and he knew he would have flown apart.

“Can you, please, take your pants off?” Quentin asked quietly, once he caught his breath. 

“Hm, well since you asked so politely,” Eliot said, lightly kissing the end of Quentin’s nose before he moved away. Quentin was still breathing heavily. He almost felt embarrassed for how overly affected he felt while Eliot was still able to think and talk coherently and continually make Quentin feel both unnerved and alarmingly comfortable at the same time.

Eliot slipped out of his pants and underwear in one go while Quentin watched, hands still up above his head where Eliot had put them. Eliot’s cock was long and beautiful just like him, and Quentin’s memories of it from before really did not do him justice. Eliot crowded back over him, lining up their groins like he had before but this time graciously naked. 

“Better?” Eliot asked above him again. 

“Yes, thank you,” Quentin said breathlessly. He was sensitive and soft still, and it was torturously sexy having Eliot on him like this.

“Mhm, turn over, baby,” Eliot said, lifting himself up a bit to give Quentin room. 

Quentin listened immediately, only comprehending the pet name once he was on his stomach. He felt his face burn and buried his head in his arms, and Eliot used the opportunity to kiss along the back of Quentin’s neck.

“Are you gonna let me fuck you?” Eliot breathed into his ear. The words sizzled hotly down Quentin’s spine. He hadn’t really spared a thought as to where this would go, but it made sense. He felt unprepared and his heart felt like it was crowding up into his throat. 

“I--ah, I’ve never done that,” Quentin said quietly, again glad he didn’t have to look Eliot in the eyes. Quentin hadn’t really done much, and most of it was with women. His first time with a guy had been just frenzied, unpracticed handjobs through a haze of forbidden homoeroticism. His second experience, and last before Eliot, they’d worked up to trading blow jobs, but that had been with a shy, awkward nerd like himself and he was starting to realize that wasn’t really his type. His threesome with Eliot and Margo was something of an emotion-fueled blur, but he still remembered the important parts clearly enough. Eliot had gone down on him, but Quentin had only fucked Margo, encouraged by Eliot.

“Is that a no?” Eliot said, running his nose along the shell of Quentin’s ear. Quentin closed his eyes; his thoughts were so scattered. The only thought continually in his grasp was more, more, more. His heart felt like it was thudding out of his chest. 

“No. I mean, it’s not--” Eliot pushed his hand into Quentin’s hair, his nails running over his scalp. Quentin shuddered as Eliot moved his hair aside to kiss behind his ear. It was an innocent, but little-touched place, and it made Quentin shiver. “It’s not a no,” he finally got out. 

“Ssso a yes then,” Eliot said and Quentin could hear his smile. Eliot had moved to kiss down his spine now. Quentin’s back muscles shifted and he felt sensitive all over, not used to so much contact. Eliot got a hand on Q’s ass and squeezed.

“Yes,” Quentin said on an exhale, suddenly very excited at the prospect of having Eliot touch him there. 

“Thank god, I’ve been fantasizing about this for so long,” Eliot said as he slid down Quentin’s body until he was settled between his legs.

“You have?” Quentin asked. Cool air rushed over his back where Eliot had been over him, warming him with his body. The heat was all in his voice now. 

“God, yes.”

Quentin wanted Eliot to elaborate but couldn’t get the words out. He tried to clear his head with a deep breath, but Eliot’s hands were quickly gripping Quentin’s ass and parting him to reveal his tight entrance. Thankfully, Eliot continued on anyway. 

“That one night,” he started, just as he ran his thumb over Quentin’s hole, “the fire alarm was going off at the Cottage. And you came out sleepy and confused and in tiny boxer briefs and someone’s extremely revealing muscle tee.” Eliot paused and Quentin felt the bed dip as Eliot got up.

Quentin hazily remembered that night, mostly because the shirt had been Penny’s, probably mixed up when he’d moved, and he’d later been yelled at for stealing it by Penny himself. He only vaguely remembered throwing it on in a rush and walking outside to Margo’s wolf whistle and Eliot’s wide eyes before going back in at the “false alarm” announcement. He’d just fallen right back into bed.

The light clink of glass bottles broke through the quiet and Quentin looked behind him to see Eliot walking back toward him, glass vial in hand and his pale skin glowing warmly in the dim light. Eliot slipped easily back into his spot between Quentin’s legs. 

“I wanted to follow you right back into your room,” Eliot said as he pressed a kiss to the dip of Quentin’s lower back, “and do exactly this.” Eliot licked a wet, warm path against Quentin’s entrance.

Quentin gasped, not really expecting Eliot to put his mouth there. It felt strange, but a hell of a lot better than he’d ever expected, and he immediately wanted more of Eliot’s tongue on him.

“I imagined you so pliant and yielding, just like you are now,” he finished, sounding immeasurably pleased. Quentin buried his face into the bed, heat crawling up his neck, but still pushing back into Eliot’s face as he resumed ruining Quentin for anyone else.

Eliot took his sweet fucking time, slowly ramping the pace, lightly pushing his tongue past Quentin’s entrance, up until Quentin was ready to beg, then pulling away to kiss or bite Quentin’s thighs before he started it all over again. Quentin was so used to being of near-equal size to his partners that it felt dirty just fitting into the large span of Eliot’s hands so well, feeling his strong grip hold Quentin open. It wasn’t until Quentin blurted a punched-out please that Eliot finally pushed two oiled fingers into him. 

Eliot fucked him like that for a while, holding him open and scissoring his fingers in and out as Quentin slowly lost the thread of time, feeling hot all over. He added a third finger and the feeling of being full and stretched was so alien and new but so fucking good, Quentin moaned loudly. Eliot worked him like that until Quentin was pushing back on him again, seeking more. But Eliot instead slipped out of him and went back to one finger, lightly exploring, the opposite of what Quentin wanted.

“Eliot, please,” Quentin whined. Cleary his vocabulary had narrowed. 

“I’m giving you the virgin treatment, Quentin. I thought you’d appreciate it,” Eliot said back and Quentin could hear the smug smile on his face.

“I’m not a--!” Quentin started, craning his neck around to indignantly meet Eliot’s eye. He stopped though, seeing Eliot smirking teasingly at him, and huffed out an annoyed breath. Distantly he felt a pang of awareness of the weight of this encounter. But he was too keyed up and, with Eliot’s finger still in his ass, it remained distant.

Eliot actually laughed, a joyous sound. “I know,” he said warmly, and impishly bit the curve of Quentin’s ass.

Quentin tried to shift back on his fingers further, desperate to end the teasing and move things along, but Eliot swatted his ass. The slap was light but sharp, and it took Quentin by surprise. His whole body felt feverish, his skin hot with vague shame that bled into a slow warmth. He never thought spanking was anything that would interest him, but he was learning all kinds of things about himself.

Eliot leaned over him, his body heat bleeding into Quentin’s back. “Stop squirming,” he said hotly before pulling Quentin by his hips up onto all fours.

Quentin felt Eliot pull his cheeks apart again, running a thumb over his hole, making Quentin whine more. He was really over the teasing.

Eliot snorted above him. “Relax, I know what you need,” Eliot said in a soft rumble.The way he said it, imploring but with confidence, felt a lot like I’ve got you. Which Quentin suspected Eliot had been saying for a long time. Quentin found he believed him.

Eliot tapped Quentin’s inner thigh with his hand, the sign to spread out more. Quentin obeyed, sliding his knees farther apart. He felt prone and exposed, stretched out and open for Eliot in every sense of the word. Eliot parted his cheeks again and went back to pressing into him with his thumb. Quentin stayed still, not wanting to cause any more delay, but he sorta felt like he’d lose his mind if they didn’t get on with it.

Then, with the pop of a cork and the slick sounds of oil, Quentin felt Eliot finally lining up. Eliot’s thumb moved in circles around Quentin’s hole, the pad of his thumb slick with more oil. Then Eliot’s cock was pressing in, the stretch and slight burn satisfying after so much teasing. It was almost too much, but everything else hadn’t been enough. 

“Fuck, Q,” Eliot breathed above him, voice deep. Quentin desperately wanted to push back on Eliot, end this slow torture. But he didn’t, letting Eliot have control, and instead he whined, digging his fingers into the blanket below him. 

Eliot pulled out a little, before he was even fully seated, and thrust back in again slowly. He pressed in further, until his hips were flush with Quentin’s ass. Eliot shifted his hips in a slow grind, getting used to being this deep inside Quentin, and letting Quentin get used to the feeling in return. It was a singular sensation that had Quentin feeling hot and boneless, and almost unbearably present in his own body at the same time. 

“God, I fit you perfectly,” Eliot said quietly, pulling out again. “Feel like you were made for this, to take my cock.” He thrust back into Quentin, driving the point home. 

After that Quentin was lost to it. Eliot took him slowly and deliberately, only lazily ramping up the pace as they moved together. Quentin was holding himself up on his elbows, still just barely keeping his wrists above his head. The position felt untenable though as Eliot fucked into him and his legs started to shake, overwhelmed by the feeling of Eliot filling him, even with his own cock untouched beneath him, now fully hard again despite his earlier orgasm. Quentin felt ruined already, his world narrowed down to where he and Eliot were connected, Eliot’s hands hot on his hips.

Quentin finally gave in to the melting heat feeling in his body and slumped down, his knees only staying propped up by Eliot’s firm grip on him, but he did remember to slide his hands back up above his head. Eliot’s grip tightened then and he was pulling Quentin’s hips toward him, setting a harder, maddening pace. Quentin moaned into the bed, the thrill of having Eliot take what he wanted making his cock leak onto the blanket below him. 

Then, to Quentin’s surprise, Eliot pulled out and easily flipped him over, breaking the bubble of no-eye-contact Quentin had been floating in. Grabbing his legs behind the knees and pushing them up and apart, Eliot pushed back into him smoothly, and the moment came back together perfectly before anything was even broken. Now, though, he could see the way Eliot’s eyes were dark with hunger, drinking him in, wide-eyed.

“Mm, either view is great, but I think I prefer this one,” he said. 

Eliot’s curls were damp with sweat and his mouth was still wet and shining, and he looked rapt. Quentin found he preferred this view as well. He looked more alive than Quentin had ever seen him and he could sense an answering feeling in himself. 

“Look how hard you are for me again, you're already dripping,” Eliot continued. Quentin’s face felt hot at that but he didn’t move his hands from their position, a feeling of invisible pressure keeping them in place. They still itched with inaction though. 

“Eliot, can I touch you? Please,” Quentin begged.

Eliot slowed his pace and leaned down with a small smirk. “Sure, baby,” he said, his voice low and sultry, “but I already let you touch yourself plenty, so keep your hands on me.” 

Quentin was already reaching for him when Eliot finished and he didn’t even care about that right now, happy to take whatever Eliot would give him. He just desperately wanted his hands on Eliot. Quentin tangled his fingers in Eliot’s hair and hooked a leg around his thigh. He reeled him in so they were finally kissing, hot and messy. Eliot pressed down back until their hips knocked and ground together, hot friction of bone and flesh, almost certainly forming bruises on Quentin’s hip bones. Quentin’s sensory input narrowed only to the taste of Eliot’s mouth and the crushing weight of him along his body; the muffled, desperate noises he made as he fucked into Quentin, Quentin’s fist in his hair, both rough and tender all at once. 

Eventually, seconds or minutes or hours later, Eliot broke their kiss, panting as he pulled away. Eliot stretched out of Quentin’s grip, straightening up fully on his knees again, pulling out of Quentin, and Quentin’s hands slipped off of him.

“Ellll,” Quentin whined unthinkingly. He’d barely gotten to touch, distracted by the kiss. He wanted to run his hands down the expanse of Eliot’s back, grip his ass and pull him as far into Quentin as he’d go. He felt empty without Eliot still inside him.

Eliot, towering over him, pulled Quentin forward so his hips were tilted up on Eliot’s thighs, shoulders still flat on the bed, legs splayed around Eliot. His hands found their way back above his head and Eliot pushed back inside him, the angle new and deep and Quentin moaned and swore, Eliot’s cock rubbing hard over his prostate.

Eliot settled his hand on Quentin’s breastbone, just below his throat, other hand on his hip, holding him flush against himself. Quentin had always felt drawn to Eliot’s hands, big and sure and expressive, and he couldn’t get enough of them on his body. Eliot pressed down on Quentin, anchoring his position as he rocked into him, harder now. Quentin exhaled heavily, the feeling of Eliot’s cock against his prostate on every thrust so good he was starting to feel incoherent with the pleasure of it, his own cock laying on his belly, red and leaking a steady stream of precome. He didn’t think he’d ever been so hard, but the urge to touch himself was a vague thought at the back of his mind; Eliot had told him not to touch himself and he wanted more than anything to do what Eliot told him.

Eliot stared down at him, eyes raking over Quentin’s face and up to his hands, still over his head. “You’re being so good for me,” Eliot breathed out.

Quentin felt almost lightheaded from the breathy, reverent tone in Eliot’s voice. He had no answer to that so he just pressed up into Eliot as he fucked back into him. Quentin felt stretched and blissed out already. His first orgasm had leveled off his desperation, and he felt a steady, slow heat crawling up his spine that he wanted to savor. 

Eliot rose up on his knees more, leaning forward, shifting more of his weight down on Quentin, and using the leverage to drive deeper into him. The pressure forced Quentin’s breathing to go shallow, but Eliot’s hand was hot and grounding. Quentin vaguely reflected that something like this, being held down and caged in, would usually be a huge stressor for him, but the thought was faint and far away, and he couldn’t even recall why this wasn’t something he’d always loved. 

“God, you’ll just take anything I give you, won’t you?” Eliot breathed.

“Yes,” Quentin said with certainty. 

Eliot groaned, like he couldn’t stand it, and folded over Quentin. Eliot’s hand on his chest slid upward to grip Quentin’s jaw, moving him where he wanted as he crushed their mouths together again. They kissed sloppily, breathing hotly into each other’s mouths, until Eliot propped himself up above Quentin with one hand and snaked the other down to grip Quentin’s forgotten erection. Quentin jolted and moaned loudly, tearing his mouth away from Eliot’s.

“Jesus, Eliot, fuck,” he babbled, way past overstimulated, squirming in Eliot’s grip. He felt tears prickling at his eyes, the feeling so overwhelming it bordered on painful, but he didn’t want Eliot to stop.

He jacked Quentin off in rhythm with his thrusts, ignoring Quentin’s swearing and pulling him back into a kiss. 

Finally, Eliot’s control seemed to start slipping as he broke the kiss to breathe hard while he fucked Quentin faster. Eliot shoved his face in Quentin’s neck as he came with a few deep, hard thrusts, moaning into his sweat-slicked shoulder. Quentin could feel Eliot throbbing inside him and shivered from the slick wetness of it as Eliot ground against his ass. Then Eliot was kissing his neck as he continued to jack Quentin off with his hand, cock just starting to go soft inside him. 

“I want you to come on my cock, Q,” Eliot whispered hotly into his ear. 

Quentin let out what could really only have been a whimper, but he was too far gone to even register any embarrassment. He was so close, shocked that he could be here again in such a short time. It was definitely another first for him, one that made him feel like there was more he hadn’t done than he ever knew. And Eliot had made it seem almost effortless, like he knew exactly what he could get Quentin to do. Eliot pumped his hand back up, rubbing his thumb on the tip and Quentin felt more wound up than he’d ever been. 

Then Eliot leaned down and pressed a kiss to Quentin’s collarbone, the gesture so unbearably soft and intimate that he finally tipped over the edge. Eliot groaned as Quentin tightened up on his cock, spilling hot and wet between them. Eliot bit down lightly on Quentin’s collarbone, an affectionate tease that made Quentin’s over-sensitive skin break out in goosebumps.

Eliot exhaled loudly and collapsed on top of him, uncaring of the mess as they lay chest to chest. Quentin laid there, immobilized by Eliot’s delicious weight, and just floated. His thoughts felt scattered and distant in a pleasant way, his body for once taking center stage as he catalogued his heavy limbs and his tingling skin. Eliot felt like an anchor, keeping him in place, and Quentin hoped he would stay. 

The thought came unbidden, snatched out of the haze in his brain. Stay. Once he grasped it he couldn’t let go. Quentin always enjoyed sleeping next to another person, despite his usual aversions. It made him feel safe and, when he’d lie awake at night, less alone. It felt like he wasn’t wasting that time while he laid with someone else there. Quentin wasn’t sure what he’d do if Eliot just cleaned up and went back to his own tent. Quentin stared up at the ceiling, stricken. 

Eliot lifted his head then and shifted to press a brief kiss on Quentin’s neck. Then another up his jaw, and higher and higher until their mouths met again. Quentin opened his mouth helplessly to let Eliot lick into him, slow and unhurried until Quentin felt thoroughly distracted again. 

“Figures you’d get tense while I’m still inside you,” Eliot said drowsily once he pulled away. At that he finally moved to fully pull out of Quentin, who was left feeling more naked and exposed than ever before. Eliot peeled himself up and slid off the bed, his hand running down Quentin’s thigh as he stood. Quentin watched him, unsure of Eliot’s thoughts on how this would play out. His chest constricted painfully waiting for Eliot to start picking up his clothes. 

Instead he quietly grabbed a cloth and dipped it in the water basin in the corner of the tent and returned to the bed, still gloriously naked himself. He cleaned himself off quickly, then sat next to Quentin and began wiping him down too. 

“Stay? Um, you could stay, the night,” Quentin asked, feeling a bold need for honesty while he let Eliot clean off his stomach, even though he felt choked by the simple affection, a lump in his throat.

“Mhm, I had planned on it, but I’m happy to have an invitation,” he said and leaned down to kiss Quentin softly. Easy, like it was effortless. 

\-- 

The next morning, Quentin awoke to the soft patter of rain, wind through the tall, surrounding pines, and Margo throwing the tent's entrance open without even an attempted introduction. 

“Hey Q, you paid attention on that tour right? Do you know where Ablan lives?” she asked, throwing her hood back and shaking the rain off her coat.

“Wha-who?” Quentin started, sitting up surprised and still half-asleep. He ran his hand through his hair and got a finger stuck in some tangles. Margo started fixing her own hair in the nearby mirror as she continued on, clearly unaware of the second body in Quentin's bed. 

“I figured that’s where Eliot decided to rest his weary wiener for the night. Lost track of him after my 9th drink, though.”

Quentin felt unwell at the thought alone. “How are you not hung over?” he asked, flopping back down. He felt wrung out himself, although in a much better way than a hangover. 

“Bambi hasn’t been hungover since our first bacchanal, we don’t know why,” Eliot said, emerging from where he’d been tucked low and close next to Quentin. His hair was mussed and wild. Quentin found himself staring even as Margo was talking.

“I like to think it was a gift from the Old Gods for being the life of the party,” she drawled as she sat down next to Quentin on the bed, a smile spreading slowly over her face. “And Ablan is the blacksmith, although I guess my journey has already come to an end, hasn’t it? This is a fun and interesting development,” she added, gesturing between the two of them.

Eliot moved to prop himself up with his elbow. Quentin was boxed in with them on either side and still naked under the covers, but he felt too pleased and satiated to be uncomfortable. 

“It was extremely fun, yes,” Eliot said smugly, winking at Margo.

"Well, saves me time, so I appreciate it. Get dressed, we have Scheming to do," she said, a glint in her eye. 

"Can the scheming involve food?" Quentin asked. 

"Yeah sure, let’s just meet in the dining hall." She stood up and straightened her coat. "Maybe I can ask some of the elders here for ideas...wonder what their tactical backgrounds are like…” she continued, distractedly staring away from them. But she threw on her hood and said, "meet me within the hour. Which is extremely generous of me." 

“Surprisingly generous,” Eliot said, squinting at her while he also grazed Quentin's ankle with his foot. Margo snorted. 

“Well, I think for once your dick made a good choice,” she said, rolling her eyes. Quentin felt flattered despite that, though.

“Or maybe...your heart did,” she said as she moved to leave. Her tone was mocking, but Quentin felt his face heat up anyway.

"It can be both!” Eliot called after her, and the entrance slipped closed on her laughter. Quentin turned his eyes back to Eliot who was already staring at him. 

“So...dick and heart, huh?” Quentin said after a beat. 

“Yeah, it’s been a while since they agreed actually.” 

"Mine do, usually it’s the other person that doesn’t," Quentin said. The quiet around them made his voice sound too loud. "I’m glad you did, though," he finished softly. 

Eliot tilted his head while he held Quentin's gaze, like he was considering some kind of puzzle. “I don’t understand how people don’t see you like I do, Q." 

Quentin's eyebrows came together, confused for a moment. "How do you see me?" 

Eliot stared at him, eyes roving over his face again, studying him. “Like...the first and only edition of a very weird and beautiful book. Like something to keep and covet," he said finally, his voice low and warm and his mouth close.

Quentin felt lightheaded with the compliment. "Well, you could keep me, if you wanted," he breathed out.

Eliot's eyes widened slightly but then he smiled slowly in a satisfied way. "I’d love to," he said. 

Quentin closed the distance between them, finally, and kissed him.


End file.
